Angel in a Safe
by 4ofakind
Summary: The Winchesters have had to face monsters of all shapes and sizes but never were they prepared to deal with this man. Probably one-shot, sherlock/supernatural crossover, angels and demons
1. Chapter 1

"So you're telling me you ain't a demon?"

The brunet hung his pale head.

"...are not."

His voice was meek, but defiant.

Silence echoed about the steel room, and none but the two men heard it.

"Clearly," the man tied to the chair spoke deeply, "you are a tortured individual but for GODS SAKE!"

he shouted without glancing up from the floor.

When he didn't speak again, Dean turned his back to the wall and began to stroll towards the chair in the middle of the room, stress stiffening his movements. He let the hollow silence weigh upon his conscience- he didn't enjoy this role. He didn't enjoying having to like this.

But he had to forget that.

This was more important than him.

...

The ceiling fan-skylight, the only opening in the safe, whooshed dully twenty feet above their heads.

He had noticed it had some strange, almost Celtic symbols worked into the steel netting of the fan, and the bunker itself was decorated with bizarre ancient patterns, books, teaching, tales, lore.

No, these men were not imposters: they were convinced this was real.

Perhaps they were right.

…

"Look at me," Dean said gruffly, standing before the pale man in the chair.

Several seconds passed and then the piercing light eyes flicked up from behind the dark curls.

That look, those eyes. Something about the man's face made his skin crawl. Dean clenched his teeth and leaned forward into the chair menacingly.

The man's low, humming voice spoke and it was more of a statement than a question.

"Why? What possib-"

Dean let his right hand fly, striking the captive's cheek with a cacophony of cracks. Who was he to think he could ask questions? It was bothering him. Something was wrong here.

The noise echoed around the room, soon followed by echoes of the dark man's calm breaths. Too calm.

"Why don't you just say it, hm!?" Dean asked, leaning closer once more, trying to look at the mans face. Breaking people was something he learned, something he hated. Never before had the mind across from him been something he feared. This was messed up.

"Who ARE you?!"

Nothing.

"What are you doing here?!"

Nothing.

He let out an exasperated breath and walked across to the other side of the room. His head was bent as he stood motionless over a desk, his hands shifting papers around and his head looking for an answer.

…

The man in the chair, his head passively frozen turned to the right (it had stayed there after he was hit from the left) saw the American and almost laughed to himself.

What was this fools game?

And though he sincerely hoped himself wrong, he deduced that this would likely be too easy.

…

Whimpering sounds started to come from behind him. Dean looked up from Bobby's desk, but didn't quite want to look at the man in the chair.

Those were not normal noises- those were ugly. Pathetic, hideous sobs and it hurt Dean's heart in a disgusting way, one which he turned a cold face upon and stepped quickly towards the center of the room.

"Stop."

He didn't. And his face was hung towards his lap.

"Stop it!" His voice came out angrier then he meant it to be, and probably for the best.

"Please," the man said, and his British accent was strong now. His face was wet and miserable, Dean looked at it and saw a disturbing picture. No. Another sob escaped him. "Just let me go home."

Enough.

"STOP!" Dean gripped the edge of the chair, and shouted into the mans wide, cat-like eyes.

He took a breath and regained some of his composure.

"Cut the act, Shirley Temple."

In a moment the dark-haired mans face transformed. A form of darkness seemed to sweep it over, and suddenly it was a blank slate.

His icy eyes glazed over and stared at Dean, every one of his cold features the definition of stolidity.

Dean looked back at him with poorly concealed dislike.

"Look, we know what it is," he spoke frankly, his gaze never leaving his captives face.

"No one just does what you do."

The fan whooshed gently, and the icy gaze didn't change.

"No one falls off a six-story building and SURVIVES."

Silence.

Dean moved closer to the man, pessimally hoping to get through the stare that still gripped him.

Yet he could almost swear he saw amusement dance across those marbled eyes.

"Are you not gonna tell me what you are?"

The mans skinny lips stretched out into his cheeks.

"What I am?" he repeated, mocking the tone.

Dean was not amused. They had had enough of this, and of all the sick bastards, of all the power struggles and rebellions, Heaven had given them enough of this crap.

Enough of this same routine, enough of these pompous, satirically ironic angels.

"Tell me one thing, then," he growled, "Tell me your name."

A smile spread across the mans white mouth.

"You know it."

"Yeah, well lets say I'd like to hear it from you," Dean answered as he leaned against the desk, picking up a pen and tapping it against the wood.

His teeth floated faintly across his smirk, and Dean almost saw his entire face come to life.

Several seconds passed, and then the man spoke in an uncomfortably smooth voice.

"Sherlock Holmes."


	2. Chapter 2

"Whatcha got, Sammy?"

The giant of a younger brother flicked his hands toward the screen of his laptop in a gesture of hopelessness.

"Nothing. There is no sign that a man named 'Sherlock Holmes' ever really existed- just a crap-ton of news about his death."

Dean furrowed his brow in confusion and took a sip of his beer, absent mindeldy flicking the cap onto Bobby's kitchen counter. Sam looked at him intently. "You think it's an alias?"

"No, he was telling the truth," Dean answered, bottle still to his lips.

Sam paused, thinking.

"I feel like I've heard that name before...You, know, before this case and before the research."

"What? Where?"

"I don't remember," Sam replied, trying recoil his memory with the two words. Had he read them in a newspaper?

If 'Sherlock Holmes' was the real name of this man, then the siblings had some figuring to do. A miraculously undead detective who disappeared from the world without a trace and they were supposed to figure out what exactly the hell was going on here without any clues from him whatsoever.

Sam sighed.

"You know," he began, "We are sure there is something here, right? That he's not just... alive? Maybe he never died in the first place?"

"Sam, he's supposed to have been dead for three months," Dean got up from leaning against the counter top to make his point, "There were... how many eye witness reports?"

"Ten- officially- but there were apparently others who saw it happen."

"Right. Ten eye witnesses saw the man fall from the roof and hit the ground bloody. Who knows how many more attended the funeral and saw him buried. That's about as real as it gets." He took another sip of his beer and sat down at the table opposite to Sam. Dean continued "and, you know, when you look at his life, the guy was pretty far from normal."

There was a pause, both brothers lost in thought.

"What do you think he did, then?" Sam asked, eyes cold.

"To come back? I dunno."

"Demon deal?"

"Maybe..."

Sam figured that meant 'No.'

He wondered. What else could a soul do to come back from the dead? What kind of creature would take so much interest in a man, had access to all realms of the afterlife?

"Angels?" he asked.

Dean nodded, a scowl on his face. "I hate to say it but probably. Can't think of anything else that's capable of overriding death."

Sam took a moment to think.

"Is he even _human_?"

Dean paused and humbly stared at the top of his beer bottle.

"Yeah, I think so. If he weren't he would've pulled something by now."

"But Dean, if he is a human and really did commit suicide, wouldn't be be a little more... you know, upset? Confused? People who come back from the dead usually have no idea what happened to them."

Dean mock-grimaced as he brought the bottle back up to his mouth, "Yeah, I know," he swallowed and leaned forward, "There's something he knows, too. He's way too cool about it. And the whole business with the fake detective scandal, the 'crime' solving, the death match on the roof. I get the feeling something nasty is going down, or went down."

Sam nodded sagely and fiddled with an empty glass on the table.

"So what do we do if we can't find out what- or who- he is?"

Dean didn't know, and looked at Sam with hard eyes.

"Well, whatever he is, he's stuck down there. For now."


	3. Chapter 3

When was the last time John had been in America?

He couldn't remember. Years, surely, possibly decades.

And what was he doing here now? A word from Mycroft- a heads-up that something was happening with regards to... and here he was in a dinky little town in the middle of American nowhere.

A resigned John Watson sighed as he unlocked the door to room 21. The English doctor walked into the pale and tired room, slid the motel key onto the coffee table and sat down on the dusty bed, a million empty thoughts swirling in front of his watery eyes.

He rubbed his head. He had hoped- hoped that this might explain something- hoped that he would find an answer- but now he realized it was probably all in vain. What was he looking for anyway? A way to bring everything back?

No. His friend was NOT dead, John wouldn't let him be, and though it had been nearly three months John wouldn't let it go this easily. And though his heart ached beyond belief for everything that had suddenly been lost to the bustling city of London and to him, here he was convincing himself there was a new and relevant lead in Minnesota.

Heavy gray clouds gathered outside the window, static clapped and the heavens cried along with John as he sat, pathetic and exauhsted, in the pathetic and exauhsted motel room.

Of course it had to rain.

In a somewhat desperate attempt to escape the tears he had cried countless times over the past few months, John got up as briskly as he could and put on his jacket. Better go into town- he would call Mycroft later on this evening.

He shuffled down and across and locked the door behind him, he put on his hood and headed off in search of a cab.

_Hello, you! Thanks for giving this a read. _

_I'm pretty new to this site and to writing fanfiction, if you like drop me a review and let me know what you think sofar. _

_I've got some ideas and plans for where the story's headed, new chapters to come soon! _


	4. Chapter 4

Dark-haired, long-faced, and unhappily smirking, Sherlock sat in the back seat of a glossy impala. He restlessly glanced out his window before returning his stare to the two men seated in front.

"'Supernatural'," Dean heard him say form the backseat, his voice deep and full of certainty, "does not exist."

The moose of a man who was seated in the passengers chair let out a short laugh, and turned his bulky head to the passing scenery. Sherlock had seen him several times before, entering or exiting the safe room to have a chat with his cowboy-ish interrogator, obviously his close relation (brother, Sherlock was certain).

"Uh," Dean adjusted the steering wheel and sighed with a smile on his face, "You might be inclined to disagree."

"No."

There was a slight pause in the conversation, and the wheels ground onto the otherwise empty freeway road.

Though Dean and Sam were confused with respects to Holmes' apparent oblivion of the supernatural, they were not fooled.

The evidence- 'fake' deaths, demonic suicides, a story in the paper about a genius proved to be a fraud- it couldn't all have just happened. Nor would it have all revolved around this man were he not important somehow.

All they had left to do was figure our how, and why.

And what for that matter.

They had tried to talk to him, to get him to give up a character maybe he didn't even know he was playing, to get him to acknowledge the truth about the supernatural that he must know. But so many hours and so few words later they were no further along in the case, and were considering a serious change in their tactics.

For whatever reason, Sherlock would not talk.

After a few minutes of silence and cold stares from Holmes, Sam gave into his curiosity and turned and turned to look at the spindly, scowling Brit in the backseat.

He wasn't evil, Sam could tell, but there was something about him that was not natural. What was it? 'Sherlock Holmes,' he said he was.

When Dean first brought him to Bobby's and told him the name, Sam would've sworn it sounded familiar, and though he soon remembered where it was from (he read it on some blog website months ago), they couldn't retrace their steps to find the origin, nor could they dig up any information on the man.

Sam remembered the blog- it belonged to a retired Military doctor by the name of Watson, and it was incredibly intriguing- but when he went to find it online yesterday it had disappeared, along with any trace of "Sherlock Holmes'" life anywhere on any server.

Sam looked at the captive with more admiration than suspicion, and Sherlock eyed him back disgustedly. Despite the opaque impression that Holmes gave off (friendly conversation was the last thing on this dude's wish list), Sam couldn't help but try.

"From what we hear about you, one would think you wouldn't be too surprised," he said with a heavy American accent, "I mean, you deal with... insanely dark stuff for a living, right?"

Sherlock raised his eyebrows.

"Insanely dark?" 'Holmes' replied, speaking as though he were in the presence of some two-year-old.

"Well yeah. If you are who you really say you are, then wh-"

"Who did I say I was?"

"Sherlock Holmes."

"And how do you know who 'Sherlock Holmes' is?"

Sam looked down and huffed gently, not quite sure how to respond.

The detective suddenly rolled his head, and when it came back up to look at Sam it was not happy.

"Don't tell me- you read a blog?" Sherlock said and it was more of a statement than a question.

"No-er, well, yes. What the hell happened to it, anyway?," Sam said, speaking now to his brother as well as the detective, "It was your friend Watson's, right? What happened to it?"

Sherlock's eyebrows lifted with his expression as he listened, and it occurred to Sam that this might be the first time he heard that the blog no longer existed. However snarky this man was the small surprise that crept onto his sharp face was earnest.

"So then you knew about it?" Sam prompted again, friendliness lacing his rugged voice.

The man in the back seat simply looked up again and rolled his eyes without really moving them, and Sam decided to give up. Sherlock was quiet the rest of the drive into town.


	5. Chapter 5

Coffee- he had ordered Coffee.

John wasn't stupid- he knew the dinky little American diners like this one probably weren't famous for their good tea.

He sat meekly on the cushioned side of a booth, hands idley fretting and cane leaning up against his knee. The small blond man had found himself here, in town, somehow, and here he was sitting and he knew he couldn't really keep himself fooled with this whole plan, but wasn't that why he came.

Oh good, the waitress was walking up with the coffee- something to distract him. Maybe, you know, help him actually interact with people. He gave sad chuckle as he took the steaming mug from her brisk hands, and shuffled his feet under the grey speckled plastic table.

People. He found it hard to believe there was actually a time he was good at that, good at being somewhat social.

The din of eighties music masked the subtle murmer of the few other occupants, and the white walls of the diner stood firm, blocking out the almost painfully perfect day that was happening outside. Not that much notable was happening, this was a fairly dim town.

Mycroft was supposed to give him a call that evening, anyway, and until he did John had nothing to do but wait for it. Doddling around the little diner, he listened to the music and drank his bitterly warm drink and noticed a newspaper rack near the jukebox at the far window (bit of an old-fashioned place, this diner), overlooking the dusty town's main street. The headline wasn't too captivating but it was free, and, after hobbling over (stupid cane- why couldn't he just get rid of the bloody thing?) he made a little face when he pulled one out from where they were compacted into a stack.

It was when he looked up that he saw it.

The somewhat large window John was now pressed his nose against displayed a decent view of the town street that lay ahead, shops and apartments all dusty and American, plenty of open space between obstacles to the occurrence, too much so. Connected to the street at an angle and heading up the small hill was an avenue and just off said avenue was a four or six-car parking lot. Inside the first car of the row, pressed up against the silvery window, was Sherlock's face.

Sherlock's face.

Thinking he couldn't quite make it out at this distance, what with the sun glare and the asphalt, John blinked and after a second, third and fourth look he could swear he was seeing Sherlock- sitting in some American car with his familiar hollow cheeks, smearing the glass and his eyes squinted into a scowl.

Sherlock.

Alive.

In a car.

Right. Over. There.

Few words could adequately describe the feeling in John's stomach as his legs once again felt the need to propel him out the diner and directly toward his friend, nor did he believe the sensation to be real in the smartest part of his mind.

Nonetheless, the little man immediately lept from the rack to the door, keeping his stare at the window and consequently bumping into two meaty men under the doorframe. He mumbled something of an apology before somehow shoving between jacketed arms and running across the street and practically jumping up the crosswalk.

Doubt flooded him over as he crossed the second road over diagonally, but he continued running and flushed it down with a swallow and looked up- and sure enough, it was Sherlock.

Godamned alive.

And now, he noticed, staring straight at him.


	6. Chapter 6

_Hello, people! Thank you so much for the reviews and favorites and all that. I'm just having fun with this, and to quote Chuck, I'm not a good writer, so let me know if you have any other inspirations or ideas! _

* * *

Dean stuffed a hand full of dimes in his pocket, his dry thumb shuffling against the worn green material of his coat.

Walking next to him, Sam wore a high-browed, low-lidded expression, and after the brothers had passed about a half-block of lined concrete he turned to talk to Dean.

"How much time did you put in again?" He gestured his head back toward the car.

Dean grunted passively without looking up, "Enough. Probably half an hour. Ate up all my candy money, too."

Sam rolled his eyes, glad the parking meter was at least payed for. The last thing they needed was for some tow to come and snatch the impala, their stubborn person of interest with it. Sam hoped the handcuffs would hold him- he didn't see why they wouldn't, at least- he hoped they would- they didn't really have another option.

The brothers reached a corner near halfway down the hill, where they could see a little intersection and a diner (Dean would probably want to stop by and get food, regardless of the real reason they were in town), and suddenly their walking came to a stop. Sam looked at his brother while Dean glanced worriedly over his shoulder and back at his beloved car before turning his auburn-green eyes skeptically upward.

"Are you sure this is smart, Sam? Leaving him alone in the car?"

"You got the keys, right?" There was an almost teasing tone in his voice.

Dean scoffed, "Of course I've got the keys!" After a pause, Dean seemed to loose his train of thought and let his gaze wander to the two-light intersection, where the hazy blue afternoon light bathed in itself and one of the hanging traffic lights switched to yellow. A black minivan came to a halt. He looked toward the Diner, which stood looking out on the street, and was just beginning to get the hankerings for a peice of pie when his attention was drawn a small man bump into a couple who where entering, which somehow suddenly reminded him he was talking to Sam.

Upon regaining his brother's attention Sam spoke.

"I mean, it's why we're here though, isn't it? To see if he does anything? And to, you know, look into the case Bobby was talking about..."

"I know, I know," Dean admitted, a scared expression building on his face, resembling the same one the hunter got whenever he was around airplanes, "but I just got a bad feeling about this."

Sam looked back at him silently for a minute, not unconcerned, but then began to walk onwards, following the sidewalk, maybe towards the Diner. Might as well start there, as the locals if they had seen anything. Dean reluctantly followed.

"So, where are we starting with this?" Dean asked.

Sam let out a breath and unfolded a small piece of paper he produced from his pocket, "Keltburry, South Dakota: Josh Kent, man in his thirties, went missing for two weeks and then showed up again with no recollection of every being kidnapped."

Dean paused a minute to take in the details.

"So what, he just disappears and then comes back two weeks later?"

"Yeah, and it seems this is actually not the first..." Sam drifted off after glancing over his shoulder, and Dean suddenly realized he was looking at something.

Not wanting to turn around for fear of the worst, Dean kept his eyes on the sidewalk.

"What?"

"Oh my god." and it wasn't a shout, but more of a shock. He was looking back at where they parked the impala, mouth open.

Dean immediately looked up followed his brother's gaze back towards the car, and his face flushed with rage.

"Hey!" he exclaimed, and this time it was a shout, and the two brothers were dashing back to the car where a man, the same one Dean had seen crashing out of the diner, was lifting one of the parking concrete blocks up to the side window of the impala.

Upon hearing their shouts, he quickly hurled it into the glass, shattering the window with a heart-stopping crash. They were feet away, and he was shouting something as was the dark-haired captive in the car, who was apparently not a captive anymore as Sam saw his pale hands wriggling free through the window. Dean reached his precious car first, and before one had managed to free the other he dauntingly grabbed blond man by the collar of his coat and, from what Sam could tell, growled out some threat.

"SON OF A BITCH!"


	7. Chapter 7

Sam sighed and rubbed his forehead, signing the paper with his free hand. The black scribble scrawled onto the paper willingly and he put the police station's pen back on it's stand.

"Thank-you," The hatted man on the other side of the desk said, and he took the paper from Sam, voice scratching in earnest, "are you sure you're okay with letting him free?"

Sam nodded and tried to smile, it was actually kinda funny.

"I mean, the man attacked your car-"

"Yes, thanks, it was just a misunderstanding."

The cop raised his bushy eyebrows in acquiescence and walked down the back hallway behind the booth, leaving Sam alone for several minutes with nothing but the distant clicks of metal handcuffs.

They were fairly lucky Sherlock had decided not to press charges- he didn't seem to be saying a word and Sam got the feeling it would stay that way as long as his apparent friend was released. Which Sam had no problem with, as long as the two of them were willing to cooperate- they would take care of it. Besides, the last thing they needed here was an entire legal mess.

When the policeman finally returned he was ushering the smaller man, short and tired-looking, and as Sam got a closer look, he realized he himself was less than unempathetic. He seemed worn, this black-jacketed man, yet there was a sort of energy about him and Sam was not sure it was composed entirely of anger.

It should be getting late- darkness was seeping in from outside- they should be getting going. Sam attempted a smile at the man, who refused to smile back but eyed Sam with cold suspicion. He seemed to understand the game, though- why it would be best if the police weren't involved.

They both walked stiffly out the door and down the front steps, neither of them wanting to lose the other, before they were down and around the nearest corner. The dark sky cloaked the street for the most part, and the few lamplights shone yellow on the empty street. This was a small town- all of it's natives tucked away in their little lit houses.

Suddenly, Sam turned to face the man with reasonable sterness, there was a wall of some small building behind him and the younger brother planned to work it into fighting plans should that become necessary.

"Who are you?" he asked and stared straight.

The man didn't seem intimidated, and Sam figured that made sense- a man who had enough tenacity to break a window of a recently-parked car for the sake of a clearly handcuffed captive wouldn't be.

"What do you want with Sherlock?" He looked back at Sam under a drawn brow and spoke with an English accent.

"So you know him, then. Is he your friend?"

The man swallowed and his face grew more contorted.

"I have a gun-"

"So do I, you thug." He spoke curtly, and Sam somehow wasn't as surprised as he should have been and blinked, then spoke more forcefully.

"Look, I don't want to use it, but I will if I have to, and I want to know who you are."

Though Sam had considered the possibility, this man did not seem to be anything but human: he bled normal blood from the cuts on his hands from the car scuffle, and he wasn't giving hints of an inclination towards the supernatural. But still, there was something here.

The man still grit his teeth but turned his gaze away, down the road and then at the blackened street.

"Who are you?" Sam repeated, to which the man huffed in exasperation then nearly shouted back in his face.

"It doesn't matter! Why do you have Sherlock- what do you want?" and there was a sort of tired sadness to his voice, "I'm his friend, thought that much would be obvious!"

"You're just his friend?" Sam said, more softly than before, and after a pause, "Do you know what's going on here?"

The man eyed him suspiciously once again, defensiveness clouding his face.

"Why, what's going on here?"

Sam tried to sigh, relaxing a little.

"I think that's what we're trying to figure out."


	8. Chapter 8

"Bloo-doop!"

Ah. Dean glanced down at the new phone in his hand- new text from Sammy. They were almost here, apparently they had stopped to get some food on the way to Bobby's, which was just really unfair. What was Sam, now, all buddy-buddy with the guy that punched a hole in his car?

He would have to get back at him for that.

Dean had been cooped up for hours- hadn't slept a wink, hadn't even gotten a bite of pie from that diner for his efforts. Sam better bring him back something. And he better not expect Dean to be in too good of a mood. Babysitting surly brits was not his thing.

The man wasn't going to try anything, at least, he was pretty sure. He had made it clear enough that he did indeed have a gun and was indeed a worthy opponent, even without one, and Sherlock wasn't stupid. He was still their captive, after all, even though Sam and Dean's repertoire of palpable reasons for that was decreasing exponentially.

"Who gave you that phone?" Sherlock asked suddenly, his voice rumbling so smoothly it set of all Dean's hairs on end. So he shook his head lazily without looking at the curly-haired man in the chair across from him.

"You can't have enough money to buy a phone," the man spoke again, and when Dean reluctantly rewarded him with a confused glance he continued talking. "The ring-tone indicates it's new- maybe you just hadn't changed it, but you're not the sort of man to live with a default notification alert noise. No, you would have changed it to one of those hideous rock bands you listen to if you had had it for any considerable length of time."

Dean's eyes closed. He tried not to be annoyed. He really did try, to his own credit.

A moment of silence passed ad Dean tried to ignore the man who was looking at him with those cold, disapproving eyes he always seemed to be wearing.

He spoke again, then bluntly.

"What I'm most curious about is how you manage the credit-card schemes," he stated and proceeded to stare a Dean until the man looked up in bewilderment.

He had to admit, he was a little surprised to see a lack of disapproval on Sherlock's face, this time- it wasn't even an icy glare, it was more fascinated than anything else. Though there was a superiority to it, as there was to this dude's entire euphoria. Without really wanting it to, it got under Dean's skin.

"You think you're so smart, don't you?" he found himself saying under a grin.

Sherlock chuckled and looked down, wrinkling his chin in a prude sort of way, "Please."

Dean nodded at that, and his face squinched with animosity, but he decided not to say anything back. He probably should have, the asshole was asking for it, but instead he decided he was content to simply sit across from him at Bobby's kitchen table, arms crossed. Maybe if he had more energy, but at it was he was too tired to talk, really, let alone fight with this joker.

After a few seconds, he got up, sniffed around the kitchen, then looked back at the other man, who seemed to be following his every movement and zipping his eyes around the counter.

Dean didn't really know what made him say it, but hell, he was tired.

"Do you like pie?"

Sherlock glanced up at him, eyes wide and then complete slits of apathy.

"No..."

Shrugging, Dean raised an eyebrow nonchalantly, though he had to admit to himself, any possible respect he might have had for this guy went down by half. So he went back to attempting to raid Bobby's old food store. Maybe he had something better in the fridge, at least something semi-edible.

Sam had better get back soon, for his good if for nothing else.


End file.
